Sensation
by Aveina
Summary: They're going home, finally, but being rescued is harder to adjust to than she had expected; somehow it doesn't feel at all like what she had thought she needed.
1. Hear

**Title.** Sensation  
**Summary.** They're going home, finally, but being rescued is harder to adjust to than she had expected; somehow it doesn't feel at all like what she had thought she needed.  
**Spoilers.** Undecided. There may be none, or there may be a bunch; anything from the series may be used.  
**Rating.** K, for now, but it may—I'm not really sure—go up. The rating will be updated whenever needed.

**A/N.** I've had this idea stuck in my head for the longest time, and it's only now decided that it wants to come out. I am not entirely sure how to explain it, or even exactly where I'm going with it, so I suppose I'll just have to let you guys read it for yourselves. This takes place after the castaways have been rescued, though there may be the odd memory or two of the island.

**Disclaimer.** I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters, nor do I own any of the songs recommended. I am not profiting from either in any way.

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**Song.** Rescued, by Jack's Mannequin.

_Chapter One: Hear._

The car travels noiselessly over the highway, its windows rolled up to block out the crunch of tires over tarmac. Although she knows it is a lost cause, Taylor strains to catch any of the sounds that the world outside the vehicle makes, but the only thing she hears is her father's voice. The song on the radio drones quietly in the background, volume turned down so low that she cannot pick out the words; she had given up on it hours ago, now choosing to ignore it.

Her father talks animatedly as he drives, his suit matching his sunglasses almost flawlessly, with one of his hands on the steering wheel. She wishes, for a moment, that he would stop using the other to gesture, that he would concentrate on the road, but she shakes the thought away when he glances at her expectantly. "Won't that be great, sweetheart?" he asks, but she has no idea what this supposedly wonderful event could be.

Hesitating, she summons up a smile to satisfy him. It seems to work, and Taylor has to pinch herself to keep from telling him to stop talking when he decides to continue. She isn't in the mood to listen to anyone, let alone someone so marvelously happy to see their exceptionally dirty, presumably traumatized, headache-plagued, first, last, and only daughter.

Taylor exhales through her teeth, considering with appreciation the sound of her breath as it passes over her lips. She wonders, fleetingly, why she had not run as soon as she'd heard the helicopters approaching, heard the ecstatic shouts and cheers of 'rescue', but the pang of guilt in her stomach quickly brings to mind the answer.

She's going home now, she tells herself, and turns her attention back to her father, offering nods whenever there is a pause in his rambles. She should be grateful; she is grateful. Why can't she get the sound of oceans, guitars, and evenings out of her head, then?

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**A/N 2.** By the way, a song will be written at the top of every chapter. Generally, it's the song that inspired the chapter, or the one I was listening to while writing. I'd completely recommend listening to the song, most of them are worth it, but it's not necessary, of course.

I know that it's really short, but I think is works? Feel free to let me know what you think. As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.


	2. Taste

**A/N. **I'm submitting this before I have a chance to change my mind. It's just as short as the last one, but I am hoping to bring my wordcount up somewhat by the next chapter. Thank you very much to everyone that has reviewed or added this to their story alerts. It really means a lot, and I appreciate any advice you guys have to offer.

**Disclaimer.** I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters, nor do I own any of the songs recommended. I am not profiting from either in any way.

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**Song.** Hopeless, by Train.

_Chapter Two: Taste._

The taste of salt lingers in her mouth, and Taylor wakes with a jolt, head pounding as she sits up, disoriented. For the span of a heartbeat, such an achingly short time, she believes she hasn't yet gone home; the past week was just a horribly extended dream.

When she touches her face, though, her fingers come away sticky, and something inside of her seems to sever, leaving a dull, throbbing, ugly wound, as remembrance strikes her. She closes her eyes, knowing they are dry and red, and forces herself to swallow the bile that has risen in her throat. The tang remains persistently, paying no mind to her efforts, and it suddenly makes her feel ill.

Somehow, Taylor manages to find the bathroom. She stumbles, dizzily gripping the counter for support, and blessedly makes it as far as the toilet before she falls to her knees.

Even as she presses her palms against her legs, digging her nails into her thighs through the fabric of her pyjama pants, and leans forward, she knows that it won't help. She hasn't been able to eat and can't keep anything she swallows down; there isn't anything left to get rid of. After a month-long diet of flavourless fruit and fish, everything else taste revolting and too calorific.

As she retches, gagging without result, someone settles behind her. One of the maids coos quietly, gathering Taylor's hair from her face, and waits.

It isn't long before Taylor finally sits back, pressing her legs up against her chest, and leans sideways against the bathtub. She wraps her arms around herself, pressing her chin to her knees to keep it from quivering, and tastes salty tears once again as the maid holds her. Somehow, the familiarity of the situation only makes her feel worse.

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**A/N 2. **I've actually never written anything like this before, not really, at least. I'm not sure how believable it is, but I know that if I don't submit it now, I'm going to keep rewriting it for another week. Also, the rating was bumped up to 'teen', just in case.

As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.


	3. Smell

**A/N. **As before, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I haven't replied to any of the newest, at this point, but I do plan to do that later on tonight.

**Disclaimer.** I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters, nor do I own any of the songs recommended. I am not profiting from either in any way.

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**Song. **Always Something, by Switchfoot

_Chapter Three: Smell._

A bizarre mixture of mints and pepper hits her the moment she opens the door, but Taylor doesn't blench or hesitate before entering the small office; the scent is familiar by now, almost comforting. She offers a tight-lipped smile in greeting as she seats herself on the couch across from the old man who waits for her, his legs crossed and hands folded neatly on his lap.

Her resolve not to speak cracks a little when she sees him lean forward, directing his attention fully at her, genuine interest flickering in his eyes. Though she knows that it's just his way of getting patients to open up to him, it makes her relax in the same way that the scent of room does. His own openness seems to radiate off of him in waves that Taylor muses must be mingling with the mints and the pepper. She wonders, for a moment, if it has a smell, but doesn't bother checking. It's a waste of energy that she isn't sure she has.

"Taylor," the man acknowledges when she finally looks up at him, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he speaks. "You're looking well today." He knows she hates it when he says that, but it has become part of their routine, a five-minute routine that was established wordlessly after their first meeting.

"Kemyss," Taylor deadpans, blatantly ignoring him as she studies the framed, degree-proclaiming certificates that hang against the room's eggshell-white walls. He doesn't seem to be bothered by her disrespect, something that she is both irritated by and grateful for.

The therapist pauses before he questions, "Would you like to talk today?"

He asks her that whenever she sees him, but Taylor always shakes her head, afraid she'll say the wrong thing if she opens her mouth. Today, though, the smell of mints and pepper makes her eyes water, and she suddenly shudders, nodding before she has time to think. The crack inside of her has suddenly broken, leaving her feeling far too exposed.

"Yes," she murmurs before she can cover herself up once again, and she feels her resolve shatter even as the word leaves her lips. "But only today."

Dr. Kemyss dips his head as that, his expression unchanged. "Only today," he agrees.

Taylor closes her eyes before she begins; if she looks at him, she knows she will loose her courage. Instead, she concentrates on the aroma of the pepper and the mints and her therapists willingness to listen, and she gradually begins to remember the smell of an ocean, an island, and a time that already feels long gone. All of it burns her nose.

"First, there was this trip…" she finally whispers. "There were seven of us." Taylor pauses, feeling a frown tugging at her lips and pent-up emotion tightening her throat. "Mostly, I guess, there was this boy…"

Distantly, her mind registers that she is being asked a question, but Taylor ignores the impulse to open her eyes and listen. She doesn't want to see or hear right now; she needs to focus everything she has on the new scent that tickles her nose. If she doesn't catch it before it's gone, she knows, somehow, that she may never get another chance.

Eventually, Taylor's attentiveness fades and she sighs hoarsely. "He smelled like sand and rain and moonlight," she explains solemnly. "And like something constant and patient and expectant and forgiving."

She opens her eyes quickly, the moment broken as she looks up at the old man. She is convinced of her description, but he stares silently, unmoving, and Taylor panics when she cannot read his face. Only when he looks away, blinking suddenly, does she catch a glimmer of recollection, _knowingness,_ in his eyes.

Before she can catch herself, Taylor smiles a closed-lipped smile that finally manages to reach her eyes. "…And understanding. He always understood," she concludes, and, as Kemyss slowly smiles, she feels a little less alone.

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**A/N 2. **As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.


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